Alphabet Soup
by InSilva
Summary: A collection of short fic. Possibly in alphabetical order but no promises. :) Fifth piece "Esmeralda". "These are rather good." He pointed at the plate of cheese and bacon nibbles. "If you're looking for something to go with the celery."
1. Americans

This is a collection of alphabetical ficlets which may or may not make it past "A". :D

**Americans** by InSilva

Disclaimer: don't own any character in here that you may recognise

* * *

The café was just down from Portland Place, tucked down a side-street set slightly back from the shopping hubbub of Oxford Street. It wasn't the most upmarket of establishments but it was redeemed by the fact that it was within an acceptable radius of both John's practice and the Langham, where, as a favour to the concierge, Marcel, he'd just cleared up the matter of the missing armadillo.

"_Ah, but zank you! You are a genius! With ze broom cupboard and ze marbles…who would 'ave thought? Only you, monsieur!"_

Marcel's words ringing in his ears, he walked the hundred steps or so to the café, ignoring John's voice in his head pointing out that he should have been consulted as to the definition of _"acceptable"_. Then, when the voice continued to grumble, he gave a dramatic inward sigh and pointed out to the voice that it served a most generous all-day breakfast which was one of John's favourites so it could do everyone a favour and just shut up.

The café wasn't busy and he found a table easily, signalling Ida behind the counter who obliged and brought a mug of tea and a plate of biscuits.

"Here you go, dearie," she said, beaming. "So nice to see you again. Give my regards to Martha, won't you?"

He flashed her a careless smile of thanks-acknowledgment-dismissal, his attention already on the home-made chocolate cookies. Dunking one into the tea, he bit into _soft-chewy-sweet_ and scanned the other patrons.

Three labourers _(one of them sickening for the measles) _and a couple of postmen _(father and son)_. An unhappily married sales rep engrossed in a flirtatious business discussion with a pharmacist who had dyed her hair and regretted it. Boring, boring, boring. But the man sitting at the table against the opposite wall...

Attributes and inferences flashed through his head._ Well-dressed, clean-shaven, neat manicure - not a manual worker - married… _Ida brought the man a fresh cup of coffee and the man's smile was warm and reached his eyes. _Charismatic, confident, successful…lawyer? Barrister? Advertising?_

"Thank you."

_American. East Coast accent. Empathic. People person. Politician? _He sat unconsciously straighter as he watched the man's casual but calculated glance to the door, to the window, to the labourers, to the sales rep…_ Observant. Cataloguing. Deducing? _What _was_ he?_ Lawman? Spy? _

His thoughts were interrupted by the look of absolute joy that flooded the man's face. It took him a moment to realise that the joy was expressed only in the way the man's eyes shone brighter and the slight crook of his lips.

(Joy. When had he ever been so certain of identifying _that_ emotion?)

The pharmacist who was facing the door was simply staring, slack-jawed. Off her reaction, the sales rep had twisted round in his seat and was busy scowling at the new arrival.

A glance at the man who had walked in - d_esigner suit, silk shirt, hint of a tattoo on his left hand – Bohemian? - graceful, casual, confident…model? Actor?_ – and he could see the way the man took in everyone and everything and still only had eyes for the American as he took his seat opposite.

_Friendsloversbrothers?_

Ida approached their table and there was light conversation – this man sounded American too - before she disappeared back to the counter giggling girlishly and returned with a pink milkshake and some of the chocolate cookies. His lips pursed slightly. His understanding was that Ida kept those for special customers.

The blond with the tattoo broke off from his biscuit long enough to pull a business card from his inner pocket. It danced through his fingers and into the other's hands and it disappeared from sight at once.

_Magicians? Comfortable with cards… Professional gamblers?_

There was a wisp of something there as if he'd almost caught it and then it had gone. He looked again at the unquantifiable pair. He found their refusal to be classified simultaneously annoying and intriguing. They were leaning forwards in their seats, talking in low voices, demonstrating an uncommon comfortable intimacy that shut out the rest of the world.

_Friendsbrotherslovers?_

Well, that seemed unlikely to be resolved at this distance. In the meantime, there was the question of occupation for both of them which was aggravating in the extreme. He could see the look on Mycroft's face._"Slipping, brother mine?"_ He renewed his efforts. Well-manicured hands so not blue-collar workers and yet none of the professional traits seemed to fit. They weren't accountants, they weren't doctors, they weren't… What did they have in common apart from expensive tailoring?

Confidence. Lots of it. They were confident men. _Confidence_ men. His brow cleared. Hyper-awareness and checking the exits and manual dexterity. It fell into place. Right now, they weren't doing anything illegal but he filed away the thought and made a note to listen to any intelligence about a target worthy of the interest of two successful American con men.

He watched as they got up and left, still engaged in that silent, private conversation and then beckoned Ida over.

"Those gentlemen who just left, Ida…"

"Rusty and Danny? They're friends of my sister's boy, Roman," Ida said fondly.

He only knew one Roman in London. It had to be worth a shot. "Roman Nagel?"

"That's right, dearie. He brought them in to meet me last summer. Rusty really enjoyed the cookies."

Understandable.

"They're staying at the Langham," she volunteered.

"Are they now? Thank you, Ida."

The last three words were automatic. He was already lost in thought.

_Armadillo. Broom cupboard. Marbles. Distraction. Misdirection. In which case, what was the real target…? _

Then the door opened and John appeared.

His lips curved upwards and his eyes shone.

* * *

A/N: Danny and Rusty belong to the Ocean's 11 universe. Virtual cookies to anyone who identified them - please state the flavour you'd like. ;)


	2. Billy

Billy by InSilva

Disclaimer: did not create any of these characters.

A/N: a missing scene from "His Last Vow". Hope you enjoy.

* * *

Billy stood stock still and blinked.

"You want me to…"

"Come home with me for Christmas."

"And you want me to…"

"Drug my parents, my brother and John's wife. Knock them out for twenty minutes."

Impossible to keep the impatience out of his voice even if he'd wanted to. He'd said all this once.

Billy nodded slowly. Good. It seemed to have gone in this time.

"His missus is up the duff, though, right?"

"Yes." It had been the one facet that he himself hadn't been comfortable with: administering powerful chemicals to Mary and his family didn't bother him in the slightest. "You'll need to be precise with the dosage. Don't want to-"

"Hurt the little one," Billy finished. He sucked his teeth thoughtfully and then added, "I'll need their measurements. So I can calculate."

"Here." He handed over a list. He'd accessed Mary's health visitor records and had done his best with the difficult equation of Mycroft-exercise+Christmasfood. "There may be a slight variance but these should be within acceptable parameters."

Billy scanned the figures and nodded again.

"A simultaneous experience," Sherlock went on, handing over a bundle of notes for supplies that disappeared like butter on hot toast. "But Mycroft needs to wake up first."

"No problem." Billy tapped the side of his nose. "They don't call me "Billy 'The Wig' Wiggins" for nothing."

"Billy, they wouldn't call you that if you paid them," he said with absolute confidence.

"So…" Billy scratched his face. "So what are you going to do while they're asleep?"

Make sure Mary and John wouldn't have to spend the rest of their lives in thrall. Whatever it took. The _whatever_ resonated all the way deep down inside him and sing-song madness lilted through his head.

_Tut-tut, Sherlock, are you thinking about what I think you're thinking about? I think you are… You _naughty_ boy…_

He slammed the door firmly shut on it.

"On a need to know basis, Billy," he said briskly and as Billy opened his mouth again, he quickly clarified, "you do not need to know."

"Fair enough." Billy gave an accepting shrug. "I'll go and talk to my suppliers."

"Good."

Conversation over, he was turning away when Billy shifted from one foot to the other and suddenly said:

"Is this because I was right the other day about the girl with the raincoat and the rabbit?"

"Chinchilla," he corrected automatically. He frowned. "What?"

"Is it like a reward?"

The frown deepened. Billy seemed like he wanted an answer.

"Yes?" he ventured.

Billy flushed. "I won't let you down, Shezza. Mr Holmes."

A smile flickered on to his face and off again.

"Please don't. It would be devastatingly inconvenient if this doesn't work."

There were so many factors that could lead to disaster; getting this wrong would mean this considered gamble was over before it was begun.

"Have a little faith," Billy counselled. "It'll all be alright."

Or it really, really wouldn't.

* * *

_Christmas _

The parents were nice, the house was nice and Mycroft, the brother who had a bad smell under his nose, was alright. As Christmases went, this wasn't bad at all even with the drive out here which had been mostly full of silence: no one had wanted to play "I spy" and he'd given up in the end and stared out the window at the countryside.

Spiking the glasses of punch was easy: he kept an eye on the clock and timed the hit for 2.10pm as he'd been told. Same with the nice cup of tea for Mary. The brother was sitting down and just sprawled forward on to the table. Mrs Holmes was on her feet and kind of staggered back but he caught her and carefully dropped her down on to a chair. He heard a soft "Well done, Billy" from behind him that was surely not just about catching the old girl and he felt pride wash over him.

After the helicopter had been and gone, he checked on Mary and Mr Holmes Snr and then made himself a cuppa.

"_Enjoy the peace and quiet because all hell will break loose when they wake."_

Yeah. He could imagine. Right now, though, it was all calm and silent like the Christmas carol said. He stood at the kitchen sink, took a big sip of tea and waited for the shouting to start.


	3. Cinema

Cinema by InSilva

Disclaimer: do not own any of these wonderful characters.

A/N: set pre-"The Empty Hearse".

* * *

There was a quirky little cinema not too far from where they lived and every so often they'd have a date night. Eat an early meal and then head to see a film and then fall back into their flat and let the evening continue.

They'd laughed at _"Life of Brian"_ and she'd had to slip John tissues when they'd seen _"A.I."_ and he'd put his arm around her through the scary bits of _"Psycho" _though that was more of a failed attempt to nick her popcorn.

She loved the ordinariness of doing something as simple as going to the cinema. Five years ago, nothing had been simple.

_The job in Rome had gone so very, very wrong and thank any god that would listen that she'd realised in time. _

_One dangerous stop to Alessandro's to hack herself out of the system – _

"_Here, bella, let me." Hands flew over the keyboard, eating their way through records, storing it all on a USB. "Keep this safe. Some day, you might need it. Now ciao, ciao and _go!_" _

_- and then she was running like she'd never run before. No time to double back, no time to settle. Identities flying through her fingers. She was Mette Olsen and Dijana Ljubenovic and Kay West and Mireille Guiot and she didn't sleep and she didn't eat all the way to London and the hastily created Mary Morstan._

"_Just wait. Just wait and she will show herself."_

_She could hear the voice, knowing and certain and there was only one option. To bury herself. No contact with her handler, nothing that would take her into the open, no trace of anything that would connect her to the woman whose life she carried round on a memory stick labelled A.G.R.A. – her sins, her past, _her.

Mary Morstan wasn't looking for love but it found her as surely as any cheesy song. John Watson. Who loved her without reservation. Whose face lit up with that crinkly smile she adored. Whose nightmares, when they came, alternated between wardeathviolence and watching a man throw himself from a roof.

When she could, she woke him up before the dream took proper hold. Before he sat up, sweating, Afghanistan in his head or Sherlock's name on his lips. There were advantages to being a light sleeper.

She loved him. She would protect him. Whatever that took. Every now and then, there was a reminder that that wasn't an empty promise.

Like when they'd been to the cinema to see "_The Long Kiss Goodnight"_ with Geena Davis, as an amnesiac assassin who regained her memory and understood exactly why she could handle a knife.

_She could feel the blade in her hand and the weight was perfect and the man in the tuxedo had less than twenty seconds to live._

Or _"Casino Royale"_ with the pre-credits fight to the death and the conviction that after the first killing, everything got easier.

_Nothing was easier. She walked away from the man who was already dead and hadn't yet had the decency to collapse in the theatre foyer._

Or tonight with _"Avengers Assemble" _when she'd sat and watched Scarlett Johansson and tried not to think about how impractical the leather catsuit would be to operate in; about how pretty the violence was – _where was the dirt and the blood?;_ about how much red was in her own personal ledger.

"You'd make a good Black Widow," John said on the way home and she caught her breath.

Keeping as calm as she could, she half-turned her head and saw nothing but the playful in John's eyes. She breathed again.

"Who would you be? And don't say Hawkeye. You're rubbish at darts."

"I let you win," John protested, opening the door to the flat and standing back to let her go in first. "Anyway. I'd be Dr Bruce Banner. Mild-mannered with a rage-monster inside."

Yeah. She could believe it.

She stepped inside and then she realised he was still stood on the doorstep. She turned and saw that John was wearing that fond little sad smile.

"Sherlock?" she asked softly.

"He would have been Tony Stark."

"Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist?"

John laughed.

"Genius, anyway. Brilliant and arrogant, all fast-talking and cutting and not caring what the world thinks and God, I miss him."

She put her hand up to his face and he caught it and kissed it.

"Come on." She pulled him into the flat. "Hot drink for Dr Watson."

Whatever it took. Even a cup of cocoa.


	4. Dream

Dream by InSilva

Disclaimer: just playing in the Sherlock playground

* * *

Bart's wasn't her first job. Not by a long way. To support herself in her studies, she'd worked as kennel-maid, chambermaid and for one ill-fated night, barmaid. But making it to Bart's…it was everything she'd been working towards.

Her dad would have been proud. He believed in hard work bringing its own rewards. Not that she'd completely understood that when she'd come down to breakfast in the school summer holidays and found ten sums with _"Best of Luck!"_ written beside them. She'd done them, of course. Just like she'd studied hard to achieve GCSEs and A-levels and to get into the best university and then into medical school. Dad had been there for all that and none of that knowledge she held in her head had been able to stop him succumbing to the cancer that was eating him from the inside out.

It had been a slow death. Slow and painful and he'd faced it with a smile on his face when he'd thought people were looking and such sad regret when he thought they weren't.

_"Try your best, Molly. That's all you can do."_

Try your best. And it had brought her to Bart's.

* * *

The junior doctor who'd been asked to collect her clearly didn't want the job. He strode through the hospital, throwing a word or two over his shoulder as she hurried to keep up.

She arrived breathlessly at Pathology –_ "Here you go. Pilkington's inside." - _and was greeted at the door by a well-dressed man in his sixties who was very obviously on his way out of the department.

"Ah. You're the new girl."

She supposed she was. She smiled and nodded and tried not to notice his surreptitious glance at his watch. There was a grunt that spoke of plans being rearranged.

"My name's Pilkington. Looking forward to working with you, Doctor…?"

There was a definite question-mark at the end of the sentence.

"Hooper. Molly Hooper. And it's _Miss_ Molly Hooper. Can I just say how terrific-"

"Bellamy!"

Pilkington was looking over her shoulder and she half-turned to see another smartly-suited senior member of the hospital staff standing in the corridor alongside a younger man in his late-thirties. Pilkington moved to join them and Molly hesitated and then followed him over.

"Young Stamford, isn't it?" Pilkington asked and without waiting for an answer, added, "this is Miss Molly Harper who's joining my team. Would you do me a favour and show her the lockers?"

"Of course, sir."

Bellamy gave her a brief look up and down. "Unusual choice. Pathology. For a girl, I mean."

She smiled nervously and bit back on the thought that the man was pompous and old-fashioned and just a little bit sexist.

"I like the idea of piecing together the puzzle-" she began but then realised Bellamy hadn't been talking to her and she closed her mouth again.

"I'll see you after lunch, Molly," Pilkington said by way of dismissal. "Head on in and make yourself at home. We'll run through procedures when I get back."

She stood and watched her new boss disappear down the corridor with Bellamy and then there was a polite cough behind her.

"Mike Stamford," the other man said, holding out his hand.

"Molly _Hooper,_" she said with emphasis on her surname. "Nice to meet you."

"Come on, Molly, locker room's this way."

"Thanks," she said, still thinking about her welcome.

Mike must have guessed her thoughts.

"Pilkington's alright," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "I mean he will leave most of the work to you and he'll take credit for the smooth running of the place but he won't stand over you and he'll be happy for you to work out the answers. That's a lot of freedom."

"Do you work in Pathology too?"

"No, I'm one of the lecturers here but I do borrow the lab from time to time," Mike explained, holding the door to the locker room open. "It's quiet and peaceful."

"Morgues are like that."

"Thank God. Don't think any of us would be keen if the corpses started coming back to life. Here's your locker. Have you brought lunch with you? 'Cos if not, there's the main canteen or there are some vending machines next door. Soft drinks, hot drinks, sandwiches, crisps and chocolate. Not all that healthy, I'm afraid."

"Thanks," she said.

Perhaps she looked a little lost because Mike added:

"I've got a class coming up but I'll look in on you on my way back. Make sure you've found everything."

"Thank you," she said again, meaning it.

* * *

She'd opened up the locker which had once belonged to one _"Stan Williams"_ and had found a clean lab coat hanging up. She pinned her identity badge on the front and slipped her arms into it and set off to explore.

It didn't take her long to complete the tour of the morgue and the lab, both of which were devoid of any sentient life. She sat on a stool and exhaled slowly, swinging her feet. She was keen to begin work but she needed Pilkington to at least start her off.

A microscope and a tray of specimens beckoned. There couldn't be anything wrong with just looking, could there?

* * *

So engrossed was she with the magnified blood samples, she didn't notice the door open nor the footsteps nor the stranger until he was right on top of her. She turned her head and found herself looking up into the face of the most handsome man she'd ever seen. She felt the shock smack through her like a physical thrill.

"Eyeballs."

"Wh…what?" Speaking and breathing at the same time was suddenly incredibly difficult.

"I need eyeballs. Six will do. They don't have to match." A frown crossed the perfect brow. "Where's Williams? He said he'd have them ready."

"Stan Williams?"

There was an irritated shrug that suggested first names were unimportant.

"I think I might have replaced him," she volunteered.

Blue-grey-green eyes stared at her unblinkingly for the longest time and then there was the tiniest nod.

"Eyeballs," the man said again. He took up residence on the stool next to her expectantly. "I can't promise to be patient."

Right. From the way this man (_this god) _was acting, he was must be some sort of consultant. Exactly the sort of person she didn't want to mess up in front of on her first day at Bart's.

"I'll just go and find them, sir," she managed and headed to the morgue.

* * *

In one of the cold drawers, there was indeed a jar with random eyeballs just waiting which was kind of a relief. She clutched the jar and tried her best to compose herself. Pretty much impossible, she concluded, as her heart thumped so loudly in her chest that the beautiful man surely had to hear it even though he was sitting in the other room. She straightened her glasses, wishing that she'd worn some lipstick and then took a deep breath and walked back into the lab.

The Man was sitting staring down the microscope. He must have heard her re-enter because he flung out his left hand imperiously for the jar, his eyes never leaving the slides.

"Here you are."

She put the jar into his (_ringless) _hand and there was the briefest of touches and surely he felt the electricity arc between them the way she did. He didn't acknowledge it though. His focus was entirely on the magnified culture.

"It's really interesting, isn't it? The bacillus has mutated into a really aggressive strain. Imagine running into that down a dark alleyway!"

She was gabbling. Talking for the sake of talking and with no response whatsoever and if she didn't shut up now, she was going to do something stupid like ask him out. Ask this ridiculously attractive man out. Or tell him how gorgeous he was. Or ask him out.

There was absolute silence for about fifteen seconds.

"So,-" she began and then the door opened and Mike Stamford walked in.

"Hi," he smiled at her and then glanced across at The Man. "Hello, Sherlock. How's the latest case going?"

The Man had a name. Sherlock. An unusual name and that was so perfect for him because he was definitely not ordinary. He raised his head and looked at Mike.

"Regretfully closer to being solved."

Mike nodded in her direction and Sherlock turned to face her. "Have you met-"

"Miss Molly Hooper," she said quickly, holding out her hand which Sherlock didn't seem to have the slightest inclination to shake. She let it drop to her side. "I'm-"

"New to the Pathology department," Sherlock interrupted, those wonderful eyes on her again, "and new to Bart's too. Keen to make a good impression – shiny shoes, new jacket, a different hairstyle to one you'd usually wear – doesn't suit you-"

Automatically, her fingers went up to the bun that held her hair in strict place.

"-and a receptive attitude to perceived authority. Your badge declares you to be a Specialist Registrar which means you're a qualified doctor but yet you call yourself "Miss" which might be to draw attention to your obvious single status but is more likely to point to your role as a surgeon. Why would a surgeon be spending time here in pathology? Working towards her doctorate. Seeking to differentiate herself from rivals. Understandable. It's a difficult job market and you don't project a memorable persona."

She blinked, the colour rising in her cheeks.

"S-single status?" she stuttered.

"Yes," Sherlock said decisively. "Unless you count the cat."

"I don't have a cat," she protested weakly.

"Only a matter of time." He stood up. "Doubtless, we'll see each other again. I'll need your mobile phone number."

Was that…did he mean…all that about her being single and now asking for…could he mean…

"Well?"

Not patient. OK, not patient. She remembered. She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and scribbled her name and phone number down and passed it to him with a hand that she refused to let shake.

"Good." The number disappeared into his pocket without a second glance. He held up the jar. "I'll take these. I'll let you know if I need more."

And with that, he was gone in a swirl of coat. She stared after him, her lips forming silent half-words.

"Sorry about that."

She jumped. She'd forgotten Mike was in the room.

"Sherlock isn't the best at social situations and he's worse than usual if he doesn't have a case to get his teeth into. He doesn't mean anything by it. He just sees something and generally it comes out of his mouth. The first time _I_ met him, he told me I needed to listen to what my dentist had said that morning and start flossing as it would keep my breath fresher."

"Keep your breath…"

"Fresher. Yeah. My wife agreed." Mike chuckled to himself. "Don't take offence. Sherlock's worth getting to know."

Well, yes. She thought so. And she hadn't been offended as such. Bewildered, maybe, by the rapid-fire deduction and the bluntness and the _how did he know._

"Surgeon, eh?" Mike sounded impressed.

"Oh. Yes. Orthopaedics. What's-er-what's his specialty?" she asked as casually as she could. "Which department?"

"Oh, he's not on the staff."

Her eyes widened.

"He's not on the staff?" she repeated faintly. "I've just given him a jar of eyeballs and he doesn't work at the hospital?"

"It's OK," Mike said reassuringly. "Sherlock has some sort of arrangement with Pilkington to use the lab and to sometimes borrow a body part or two to help with his research."

She wavered between asking about the research and trying to get to the bottom of the arrangement. Mike obviously sensed the double question.

"Sherlock's a…well…a private detective, I suppose. He works quite closely with Scotland Yard on different cases."

Very different cases. Criminal not medical ones.

"I don't know the details but I understand he helped Pilkington a year or so back. As a result…well, he gets lab time and John Doe eyeballs."

She made a little noise of fascinated acknowledgement and then saw the sympathetic smile on Mike's face.

"I know. Lot to take in. Look, do you want to grab some lunch? I'm headed for the canteen."

She hesitated. She should probably wait at the lab for Pilkington. Mike was still speaking.

"I can tell you more about Mr Sherlock Holmes and I can introduce you around-"

"Yes," she said a little too quickly. "Thank you, yes. Lunch would be good. Great."

* * *

It was later, much later, and she was back home off shift, her shoes kicked off and all the pins pulled out of her hair. She was sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea and a packet of bourbons and she'd just phoned her mum.

_"So how was your first day, Mol?" _her mum had asked and she'd told her.

She'd told her about the journey in on the tube.

She'd told her about Pilkington and the morgue and the lab and about how it had all ended better than it had started because Pilkington had returned and had actually spent time with her and she felt like she'd learned something.

She'd told her about Mike and how at lunch, he'd introduced her to Stacey from Radiography and Ian from Dietetics and Jo from Facilities and they'd all been as friendly as Mike and she'd felt included.

She'd told her that her first day had been good. Great.

She dunked a biscuit into her tea and thought about what she hadn't mentioned. About dark, unruly hair and cheekbones and indescribable eyes and an imperious manner. And about dreams coming true.

* * *

A/N: in researching Molly, I came across a post entitled "Meet Miss Molly Hooper" which makes, I think, an excellent case for Molly being a surgeon. So thank you very much to its author.


	5. Esmeralda

Esmeralda by InSilva

Disclaimer: own nothing Sherlocky.

* * *

His friend, Rhys, had started work at an obscure publishing house and asked him to attend the book launch for some scholarly tome. Rhys had promptly disappeared with a petite redhead but he didn't mind so much. He liked people-watching and there was plenty of opportunity for that. Besides. There were snacks.

Standing beside the table of canapés with a glass of pleasantly fizzy wine in his hand, he picked up an interesting-looking cheese and bacon concoction, bit into it and studied the half-empty room, humming quietly to himself.

An intense young woman in spectacles was in deep conversation with an elderly man who kept surreptitiously checking the time on his wristwatch. Over by the window, there were a couple of men in suits who were wrinkling their noses at the wine and were busy tipping it into a convenient pot-plant. And then there were the three girls – women, really – who had just arrived at the other end of the canapé table. Two stick-thin brunettes and a robust blonde who had seized a stick of celery and was busy brandishing it.

"I've told you, Delia, there's absolutely no chance. And don't give me that look, Charlotte." The celery was waved at the brunette on the right. "You know better than to ask."

Delia and Charlotte exchanged a look and walked away. The blonde sighed a heavy sigh and crunched the celery with a despondent air. He couldn't help noticing that from her side profile, she had very pretty features. He edged closer and cleared his throat.

"These are rather good." He pointed at the plate of cheese and bacon nibbles. "If you're looking for something to go with the celery."

She turned her head and there was a startled look at the interruption that melted away at once.

"Hello. Do I know you?"

Her eyes were very, very pale blue. And she was indeed very pretty.

"Not yet." He stretched out his hand. "William Holmes."

She frowned slightly and then shook it. Her handshake was firm and decisive and he liked her for that alone.

"Do you work for the book people?"

"No, no. My friend, Rhys, does. He asked me to come along." The words hesitated on his lips and then he threw caution to the winds and said them anyway. "I'm pleased I did."

It was a gentle little compliment but she didn't appear to understand it. Another reason to like her. She seemed utterly unaware of how gorgeous she was.

"Did your friends press-gang you into coming along too?"

"My friends? Oh, you mean Charlotte and Delia. They're not friends. They're just tiresome PR girls. Pestering the life out of me to go to some other do next week with them. I don't want to. Coming here was bad enough."

She crunched the celery absent-mindedly and then the blue eyes were focused on him.

"Is that too honest? People tell me I'm too honest. Like it's a bad thing."

"It's not a bad thing," he assured her. "Maybe sometimes people don't know how to react."

She nodded to herself as if digesting this thought.

"People might like to know your name though," he prompted gently. "I would at least."

"Esmeralda," she said. "My name's Esmeralda. My parents adored Victor Hugo."

He blinked. "Really?"

"No. It's Margaret Louise. Terribly unadventurous. Wouldn't you rather be called Esmeralda? If you were me, I mean?"

"_You_ like Victor Hugo," he said with a perceptive smile.

She blushed charmingly. "My guilty pleasure. When I'm trying to work out a particular problem, I find it helps to read French prose. Don't tell anyone."

"Your secret's safe with me."

She gave a girlish giggle and as she did so, he had one of those light-bulb moments of his that he could never properly explain.

"M. L. Carter. That's you."

"I know it is," she agreed.

He looked over her shoulder at the copies of the academic work displayed on the table.

"Wow," he said, sincerely impressed.

Her shoulders slumped a little. "You want to go and find someone else to talk to, that's fine."

"What?" He stared at her uncomprehendingly.

"I know chaps don't find this," she waved a vague hand which still held the celery in the direction of her book, "that appealing."

She was very wrong. He took a step closer to her. "Intelligence and good looks? I'd say that was a pretty sexy combination."

She blushed again. "Oh, you are a dreadful man."

"There's no one else I want to talk to. Esmeralda."

Her eyes were dancing now like a gypsy girl in the shadow of Notre-Dame. He wanted her to look like that at him forever.

"Can an author leave her own book launch early?"

"No idea," she said cheerfully. She dropped the half-eaten celery on the table and took his hand in hers. "Let's find out."


End file.
